


i can’t quit you (i don’t really want to)

by humanveil



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Phone Sex, infidelity i guess but i don’t care about tammy’s husband, some dom/sub undertones for a little spice, tammy feels a bit guilty though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: “I thought—”“Prison,” Debbie supplies. Like she knows what she’s thinking. “I am, yes.”“Then what—” Tammy starts, stops. Exhales as her eyes fall shut. “Why are you callingme?”





	i can’t quit you (i don’t really want to)

**Author's Note:**

> okay so when i [made](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/post/177584772492) [these](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/post/177615124147) [gifsets](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/post/177586654097) i realised that the phone call + tammy’s “i thought you were in jail” line almost makes it seem like debbie had called tammy from prison. so _obviously_ the next step was to write this completely implausible and entirely self-indulgent smut. it then sat in my drafts unfinished for about ten months, but it’s here now, so enjoy!

The first call comes in the mid-afternoon, her phone’s ringtone loud. Unexpected. She’s in the kitchen—her children napping in their rooms upstairs, the baby monitor for her youngest laid out beside the ingredients that litter the bench: a dinner she’s yet to make. 

Tammy answers it absentmindedly, phone pressed to her ear with the help of her shoulder. “Hello?” 

There’s a beat, and then: “Hey, Tam-Tam.” 

There’s no question to who it is. Debbie’s voice is a familiar drawl, quiet and nonchalant, as if Debbie does it every day. As if she and Tammy still have the type of relationship where this happens. As if she’s in any position to be doing this, _now_. 

Tammy swallows. Stills. Starts to say the word _what_ but trails off with a shake of her head. She looks around her, as if to double check that she’s alone, and tucks herself in an alcove beside her fridge: like doing so might keep it a secret. Might keep it separated from her every-day life. 

“Debbie?” she asks, and her voice is a hurried whisper. Desperate, almost. 

“Mmhm.”

“I thought—”

“Prison,” Debbie supplies. Like she knows what she’s thinking. “I am, yes.”

“Then what—” Tammy starts, stops. Exhales as her eyes fall shut. “Why are you calling _me?”_

There’s rustling on the other end, as if Debbie had shrugged. “Been thinking ‘bout ya,” she says. Like it’s really that easy.

Tammy drops her hand, curls it around the edge of the kitchen bench: grip tight, nails scratching against the surface as images fill her mind. Debbie, dressed in orange, laid out in a cell. Mind occupied with thoughts of _her._

She tries to shake it away. Whispers, “Deb,” almost like she’s pleading. Almost as if to say, _don’t._

“What,” Debbie says, and it’s intentionally oblivious. Said with that all-too-familiar teasing tilt. “You don’t think about me?”

Tammy can feel the sigh press at her teeth. Thinks, _how can she do this every time?_ She’s not sure she wants the answer. 

Her mouth opens, shuts. She’s fumbling for a response, for something to say that isn’t the truth, that isn’t _yes, of course, how could I not?_ She doesn’t want to voice the admission. Doesn’t want to admit, even to herself, that she thinks about Debbie far more than she ought to. 

“I—” she starts, but it’s cut off. Her daughter’s cry drifting through the room: loud and demanding. Tammy turns toward it, eyes the baby monitor and hesitates for just a second. She allows herself a moment of regret before finishing, “Deb, I have to go.” 

It’s quick. Rushed. She pretends not to hear the disappointed sigh from the other end of the line; thinks it’s easier to ignore her accelerated heart rate as she ascends the stairs of her home. 

To acknowledge any of it would open floodgates she’s just barely keeping shut. 

-

Debbie doesn’t stop. Tammy had thought that maybe she would, that maybe it would be a one-time thing, but if anything, it’s the opposite. If anything, it sets the wheels in motion. 

The second call comes only days after the first, the buzz of her phone loud where it sits atop a stack of boxes. This time, Tammy is in her garage, the children with their father as she sorts through the newest additions to her dirty little secret. 

She answers on the third ring and waits. 

“Do you remember,” Debbie starts, not bothering with preamble, “that job in Jersey? The truck of jet skis.” 

She doesn’t have to think. The memories are there, waiting. The past she’s tried so hard to bury rising to the forefront instantly. 

“Yes,” she says, and she can feel it, now: that light flutter of excitement, the first hint of adrenaline.

There’s a pause on the other end, a beat of silence. Tammy can picture her easily. Can imagine the little smirk on Debbie’s face, the way she’s holding the phone. Knows how pleased she must be with herself. 

“Do you remember what we did after?” Debbie asks, and Tammy exhales, now. Lets her head fall against the wall with a dull thud. 

How could she forget? “Yes,” she says again, harsher this time. “Yes—”

“Our little pit stop.”

“— _I remember._ ” 

“You were so sweet,” Debbie says, almost coos, her voice quiet and breathy and more than enough to make Tammy’s chest tighten. “The little noises you made—”

Tammy swallows. Shuts her eyes at the onslaught of arousal: the swirl in the pit of her stomach, the way it grows, spreads through the rest of her body as Debbie keeps talking; tells her how vividly she remembers it, remembers _Tammy_ , leg hooked over Deb’s shoulder as Debbie kissed along her thigh, her clit, her cunt. _Made her_ _scream._

Tammy’s breath hitches, the sound audible, even through the phone. On the other end of the line, she hears Debbie laugh: soft and breathy and leaking satisfaction; proof that she knows exactly what she’s done. 

“See ya, Tam-Tam,” Debbie says, sickly sweet, and Tammy barely has time to think before the line goes dead. 

It’s a long while before the hammering of her heart fades back to something normal. 

-

The third call catches Tammy in the late morning, as she’s fixing the towels in the bathroom, fiddling with edges and folding them over sleek, shining rails. She doesn’t need to check the caller I.D. to know who it is; is fully expecting Debbie’s voice to filter through the phone when she puts it to her ear and answers with a soft, “Hello?”

What she doesn’t expect is for Debbie to say, “I got off thinking about you last night.” 

It catches her off guard. Almost makes her choke on nothing at all: her eyes wide in surprise and her heart in her throat. 

_“Debbie,”_ she says. Tries for scolding but fails, her voice too breathless for the reprimand to stick. She closes her eyes and wills herself to steady. 

“Mm. You sounded a little happier in the fantasy.” There’s a rustle, as if Debbie’s moving the phone. Then: “Do you want to hear what it was?” 

_No_ , Tammy thinks. No, she doesn’t. No, she shouldn’t. What comes out is a stuttered, “I—” as she steps back, settles on the edge of her bath, her free hand reaching to run through her hair as Debbie takes it as a sign to continue, her voice an octave lower than it had been before. 

“You were wearing that skirt. You know, the blue one? Fell just above your knee?” Tammy does know. She still has it, somewhere; locked away with all the other souvenirs of her past life. Debbie had got it for her—a gift, bought with the money their first job had made. “It was so easy to slip my hand under.” Debbie almost sounds wistful, now, and it makes Tammy’s chest tight. She listens carefully, makes out an unintelligible shout in the distance before Debbie continues. 

“We were at dinner—that place you like with the records on the walls. I only had my hand on your thigh but it was enough to make you squirm.” It’s followed by a sigh, Debbie breathing into the phone. Tammy feels it like a phantom touch on her skin; a warm, wet memory. She wonders if Debbie can tell that she’s squirming, now, too. That this alone is enough to make her stomach tight with arousal. With _want._

“You were soaked through by the time I got my hands on you,” Debbie continues. “I pressed against your clit and you yelped, grabbed my arm. Worried people would see.” Her voice drops, soft and low. Tammy doesn’t know if people can hear what Debbie is saying, but just the thought of it has her clenching around nothing. Makes her fingers twitch with the desire to reach into her jeans and—

“You were so desperate when I got you alone,” Debbie tells her, her voice a little more urgent, now. Like it’s getting to her, too. “All worked up. I kept thinking of that. Of how needy you used to get—begging me to fuck you.” 

A quiet noise gets stuck in her throat. Tammy refuses to admit it’s a moan, but the way Debbie laughs on the other end tells her it wouldn’t matter what she says. 

“You like that, huh?” Debbie says, sweet again. Tammy breathes hard, rests her elbows on her knees as she stays seated on the edge of the bath, body tight with tension. “You want me to tell you how I think about you? About how you’d buck against my hand and stifle your pleas for more? I still remember the way you ta—”

_“Stop.”_

It’s all but ripped from her throat: hoarse and guttural, louder than she’d intended. Tammy opens her eyes and stares at the polished floors, the gleaming edge of the cabinet’s handle, the ragged edge of the bathroom mat. Anything but what she can see of herself in the mirror’s reflection. 

She takes a deep breath; steadies her voice as much as she can before saying, “Deb, I… _I can’t.”_

It’s not what she wants to say, not really, but Tammy figures it has to do. It’s not so much a matter of want: that much she can’t deny, not to herself. Not as her stomach stays tight with tension, the fabric of her underwear undoubtedly damp. _Can’t_ is really the best excuse she’s got. 

There’s another sigh from Debbie’s end, but there’s no heat behind it, now. Instead, Tammy can hear the disappointment clearly. Thinks Debbie sounds almost sad when she answers, “Maybe next time, huh?” 

Debbie doesn’t leave time for a response. Tammy can’t tell if she’s grateful or not. 

She stays in the bathroom well after the call has ended, not moving from her spot on the basin as she wills her body to calm, to return to normal. She pockets her phone, takes long, deep breaths, and for a while, she fools herself into thinking it works. 

The delusion is shattered only hours later, when she’s pressed against the porcelain of her tub, two fingers pressed against her clit while her body lies swarmed in warm water. The memories that fill her heard are of Debbie: of what she remembers of her body, of the way it would twist, curl, arch, of her voice, low and sweet and wonderfully filthy; the memory of her touch the thing that sends Tammy over the edge. 

It happens so quickly that Tammy would be embarrassed if anyone were around to see. Her orgasm wracks through her; sets every nerve on fire with pleasure. At the last second, she tries to switch out the image of Debbie with one of her husband, thinks that maybe it’ll make what she’s doing better. 

(It doesn’t.)

-

The fourth time Debbie calls her, Tammy skips the hello all together. 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she starts, because she’s thought of little else but Debbie for days, for weeks, ever since that first call: her phone a constant in her pocket, never away from her for long. Because she doesn’t dwell on why: suppression leading to frustration, agitation, anger. The latter directed at herself more often than it’s not. For allowing it, for waiting for it. 

For _wanting_ it.

“You sound a little tense,” is all Debbie says, casual and carefree. Tammy thinks of where she is and wonders how, how is it that _she’s_ the one whose life feels like it’s turning upside down. “Bad day?” 

Tammy could scream; can feel the frustrated noise pressing against her teeth. It’s been over two weeks since the last time they spoke and she’s been on edge ever since: stuck between craving this very call and dreading it. 

“No,” she says. Tries to keep her voice sharp. She isn’t entirely sure she succeeds. 

Debbie hums on the other end, and the fact that she doesn’t believe her is obvious. “Wanna talk about it?” she tries, and Tammy hates that the mocking edge of her voice goes straight to her cunt. That her body is already growing hot with adrenaline. Anticipation. That it has been since her phone screen had flashed with a call from an unknown number.

“No,” she says again, and whatever bite she might’ve had is completely gone, now. She can _hear_ Debbie’s grin through the phone: small, smug, satisfied. It makes her squirm. 

“Would a back-rub help?” comes Debbie’s voice, deep and purposefully sleazy. Tammy can’t help the quiet, little laugh that bubbles in her chest. 

“You don’t give up, do you?” she murmurs, the fond exasperation weaved through her every word a familiar thing. She never could stay mad, she thinks. Not with Debbie.

“Not when I want something,” Debbie tells her, serious this time. Tammy hums and steps back from her wardrobe, the basket of laundry left discarded by her dresser as she backtracks to the bed. 

The mattress is soft where it dips beneath her, the duvet smooth as she runs her free hand across the surface. Silence falls between them, not as comfortable as it once was but not exactly tense, either.

Then: “I bet you look beautiful.” 

The words are honest, this time. Sincere. Too sincere, really: the tone of Debbie’s voice making Tammy’s breath shake as she exhales the name _Deb_ like some sort of pleading prayer. Her eyes are shut again, warmth spreading high across her cheeks.

“What?” Debbie asks. “You always did. Do.” There’s more rustling on the other end, a pause where Tammy considers saying thank you but decides against it. When Debbie speaks next, she’s joking again. Voice light as she informs her, “I look like the witch from Hansel and Gretel.”

Tammy laughs again, softer this time. The sound escapes in a quiet breath: more obligatory than it is genuine, Debbie’s attempt at a joke a reminder of where she is, of what she’s going through. Concern tugs at something buried inside of Tammy; that part of her that will always, always worry about Debbie, no matter how much she tries not to.

She can’t help but ask, “You doing okay?”

The response is more or less what she’d expected.

“Didn’t call to talk about that,” Debbie answers easily, voice never losing that playful quality. Tammy shakes her head and leans back, lying across the mattress as her legs hang over the bed’s edge.

“No,” she says. “You called to torment me.”

In her mind’s eye, she pictures Debbie smiling: small and secretive and soft, a look that was once reserved for Tammy and Tammy alone. Even in her imagination, it’s enough to make her stomach flip: that familiar sensation of warmth something Tammy tries her best not to think about.

“We have different definitions of the word torment, Tam,” is Debbie’s response, and Tammy’s mouth twitches, her eyes opening to stare at the off-white span of her bedroom ceiling.

“Uh-huh.” It’s a deadpan, but a smile still tugs at her lips. She isn’t sure why she’s doing this. Why she doesn’t hang up and save herself the trouble. Her and Debbie have never managed to last, and this certainty won’t, either. It’s part of why Tammy had left in the first place. Stability, she’d reasoned. _Practicality._ This is anything but.

(It’s part of the reason she loves it.)

“I thought you enjoyed our little chats,” Debbie says, and Tammy thinks, _that’s one way to put it_. She doesn’t say it, though. Doesn’t say anything. _“I_ enjoy them,” Debbie continues, slightly baiting. Tammy shuts her eyes again.

“I bet you do,” she says, and the adrenaline is coming back, now, slowly but surely. The initial arousal she’d put aside at the hint of a serious conversation coiling in the pit of her stomach and creeping all over. She wonders how much time they have; if there’s a system to these things, if Debbie will be pulled away at any moment. It wouldn’t really take long, anyway, she thinks. Swallows the sigh.

She only hesitates a moment.

“What would you do, Deb?” Tammy says—breathes, really. Her voice low, cautious. Guilt nags at her, faint and distant, but she can’t help but think that it’s a little late for that, now. She adjusts herself on the bed, contemplates a moment before adding, “If you were here. What would you do?” 

There’s a beat, and then another, and then Debbie’s voice is coming through the receiver again, strong and sure. Like she’s practiced this before.

“I’d keep it simple,” Debbie tells her. “Take my time.” 

Tammy shifts, the fingers of her free hand ghosting across the sliver of skin above her jeans. “I would’ve thought you’d be dying to dive in.”

She gets a murmured, _No fun in that_ , as a response, and she supposes it’s to be expected. After all, she has more than enough memories of Debbie taking her time, drawing it out: as if the wait, the _anticipation_ , was as good as the climax itself.

“Besides,” Debbie says, “there’s no shortage of women in prison. It’s you I miss.”

The words come as a surprise; the softness to it unexpected. Debbie always had been unpredictable in that area, Tammy recalls. Playful and flirty and taunting right up until she wasn’t. It still drives her mad.

She doesn’t get the chance to respond, Debbie continuing with: “You know how I like to tease you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’d bring you to the edge and then leave you there. Kiss every inch of your body except for what you’d beg me for.”

Tammy can picture it: Debbie’s body above her own, the weight pinning her to the mattress as a mouth kisses across her jaw, her neck, her breasts, Tammy wet and waiting as Debbie touches her, hands moving across her chest, her stomach, her thighs, until finally, _finally—_

Fuck it, Tammy thinks. It’s too late to turn back now. Her breath is hard and heavy as she struggles to unbutton her jeans, not bothering to take them off as she dips her hand beneath the fabric, her fingers slipping under her underwear and reaching for her cunt. The first touch makes her moan, pleasure and relief pouring off of her in waves as she listens to Debbie’s breathing on the other end of the phone.

“Does that feel good?” Debbie asks, and _of course_ she can tell what she’s doing, Tammy thinks. She’s sure Debbie would know even if she’d tried to hide it.

Her voice is a broken groan when she speaks Debbie’s name in answer. It’s met with a tongue click, and Tammy can only imagine the shake of Debbie’s head. The little _nuh-uh._

“Answer the question.”

 _“Yes_ ,” she tells her, almost harsh. “Yes, it feels good. Happy?”

Her frustration is met with a laugh, Debbie’s voice warm as she says, “You’re still dressed, aren’t you? Too desperate to wait, hm? Tell me what you’re doing.”

Another moan, more of a gasp as Tammy shimmies, pushes her pants down to slip a finger inside her cunt, a second following almost instantly. “I’m—” She cuts off as she moves them, pulls the phone from her ear just long enough to put it on speaker and then lets it fall to the mattress beside her, her now-free hand reaching between her legs, two fingers rubbing against her clit. “I’m fucking myself with my fingers.”

She says it in a rush, face heating the second it’s out. She’s never been as well-versed in this; had never really needed to be. Not when Debbie usually took the lead.

There’s a hum from Debbie’s end, small and appreciative. It washes over Tammy like a bed of warm water; makes her clench around her fingers as she tries to stifle the moan that’s stuck in her throat. 

“Are you imagining they’re mine? That I’m there with you?”

Stupid questions, Tammy thinks. She’d roll her eyes if they weren’t squeezed shut. “No shit,” is what she says, but she’s breathing too hard for it to have any impact; the effect this is having on her clear by the sound of her voice.

Debbie laughs again. “It’s not the first time, is it? You’ve done this before.” 

“Yes,” Tammy says. If she could string it together, she’d tell Debbie just how often. Would admit that Debbie has plagued her thoughts for the past month; that every time she did this, it was to the memories she still had of the two of them, to the sound of Debbie’s voice in her head: too entrenched to ever forget.

“While thinking of me.”

It’s not a question, but Tammy answers anyway. “ _Yes._ Deb— _shit_ —”

Her thigh spasms, her breath hitching as she bucks against her own hand. It’s an effort to stay focused on Debbie’s voice, to not get lost in the pleasure.

“Is that really all it takes?” Debbie asks her. “A couple of words? You’re that desperate for it?” 

Her response is a string of obscenities, the swears broken by gasps and groans and Debbie’s name. She knows she’s getting close. Can feel it: the tingle in her toes, the tightening pit in her stomach, the way her body arches off the bed, mouth open and eyes shut, sweat gathering at her forehead. When she does come, it’s to the sound of Debbie taunting her, asking her if she wishes it was Debbie’s tongue inside of her instead.

 _“Shit_ ,” Tammy says as she lies there panting, fingers slipping away as Debbie’s laugh filters out the phone. She feels as if she can barely move; as if she’d crumble to the floor if she were to try and stand.

“Was that good for you?” Debbie asks, and she sounds satisfied again; like she’s only asking to hear her say it.

Tammy sighs and shakes her head. “You’re the worst,” she jokes, reaching for the phone. She takes it off speaker and puts it back against her ear, uses the moment to simply breath.

She’s only just caught her breath when Debbie asks, “Is this the part where you tell me not to call you again?” 

She should have seen it coming but it catches her off guard. Tammy stills, body cooling as the sweat dries, leaving her chilled. “I—” she starts to say, but swallows it, because she was going to say no. Because she _wants_ to say no.

But what’s the alternative, she thinks. Scattered phone calls across Debbie’s incarceration? Sneaking behind her husband’s back to have conversations about nothing? To do _this_? As much as she loves Debbie—will _always_ love Debbie—Tammy can’t do it. Doesn’t want to live her life that way.

To stop it now is probably for the best.

It’s with that thought in mind that she says, “I have a family,” like it’s the explanation for everything. It’s subdued, the pang of sadness she feels genuine. “Deb…” she tries, “I’m sor—” 

But Debbie cuts her off before she can finish. “It’s fine,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the TV dinners.”

It’s a joke that doesn’t land; the humour not quite there. Tammy exhales, long and slow. “I wish I had a better answer,” she whispers, and she means it, too. Hates the thought that she’s taking a source of Debbie’s happiness away.

“It’s fine,” Debbie says again, and it at least _sounds_ honest. There’s rustling, like she’s shaking her head. Then, soft and sweet, “See ya, Tam-Tam.”

She’s gone only seconds later.

-

Debbie doesn’t call her again until months after.

When she does, the caller I.D. that flashes across the screen is not the unknown number that Tammy had grown accustomed to, but rather, it’s Debbie’s name written clearly in little, white letters: her own contact, Tammy realises. From her _personal_ phone.

Her chest is tight as she answers. She half-expects for it to be a joke, but it’s Debbie’s voice that greets her. Debbie’s voice that tells her she’s outside, waiting. _An invitation._

Tammy never stood a chance. 

**Author's Note:**

> if it weren’t obvious, the author would very much like to be suburban mum sarah paulson’s service top…
> 
> anyway. i hope you enjoyed it! pls drop a comment if you did ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/irnstrk) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)


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